Playing with Fire
by writingblock101
Summary: "There are some people in this world who deserve to be killed when locking them up just isn't quiet enough." Frank snorts quietly. "Pretty ironic coming from the man in a field dedicated to saving people." "So I've been told," Wes responds. Frank Castle grudgingly accepts medical help from young nurse name Wes who constantly questions whether Hell's Kitchen is truly worth saving.
1. Playing with Fire

**Hello! Hopefully the formatting is behaving, if not, sorry about that. This is a quick two chapter story I thought of a few weeks ago and wrote down. Enjoy!**

Police sirens, car horns, chattering of people, distant screams, the barking of dogs. Even at 3 AM, the city never sleeps, hence the well known nickname. Wes lets out a heavy breath, running his fingers through his dark curly hair. Most people figure the graveyard shift hours at the hospital is the worst part about being the new nurse, but when one is a nurse in a place like Hell's Kitchen, some of the people that drag themselves through the doors are worse than the hours.

While Wes constantly helps the unfortunate souls who have fallen victim to the unforgiving city, he also has to offer aid to those inflicting pain. The mere thought makes his blood boil, but he knew when he decided to go into the medical field, it would have it's cons (no pun intended). You can't save everybody and you have to help the people that don't deserve saving.

The rise of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has brought more people into the hospital, more people undeserving of being helped, but it does comfort Wes to a certain extent to know the murders, rapist, and thieves he patches up on a daily are going to rot in prison for a few months or so. It's not permanent, but it pushes back the temptation to stab some of these people with the needle he's stitching them with.

A hideous, stray checkered cat perched on a trashcan hisses at Wes as he walks by then darts under a large stack of crates. This city is ugly. It's dark, cold, and merciless. At first, it puzzled his family why Wes wanted to live in such an awful city. That was until they came and visited him one day. This city needs people like Wes who are willing to save the innocent, even if it means including the guilty. For the longest time, Wes figured he was alone. No one in Hell's Kitchen possess any ounce of faith in the city, and understandably so. That was until the Devil of Hell's Kitchen made his first appearance. Suddenly, Wes discovered that he is not alone and that maybe this city is worth fighting for so after completing his final year of nursing school, Wes didn't return to his home state, Georgia. He instead remained in New York to put his superb medical skills to good use. An impressive recommendation given to him by a beloved professor landed Wes with a job in Metro General Hospital.

The job has been great. Despite the tiring hours which leave Wes with the ever present feeling of never getting enough sleep, Wes has never learned so much in such a short amount of time. He treks along sluggishly, blinking hard in effort to wake himself up. _Only a few blocks more_ Wes encourages himself _Only a few blocks more before you can get in bed_. When he gets to his small apartment, Wes is going to collapse on his bed and sleep like a dead man for a few hours before finally peeling himself up for a much needed shower. He'll eat, then take care of the other small mundane task around his apartment and probably take another nap before heading back for his- SLAM!

Leaping back in shock, any previous fogginess ripped away from him, Wes quickly recovers and finds himself running to the side of the body which fell from the rooftop of the business building next to him. Shaking the man's broad shoulder in attempt to alert him, Wes asks the battered man:

"Sir, are you okay?" It always seems like a silly question, especially in a case like this when the man is clearly not okay, but it is really meant to check for consciousness.

After receiving no response, Wes instantly snaps into nurse mode, first checking to see if the barely conscious man has a pulse. When he finds it, Wes speedily inventories the expansive wounds and bruises littering the man's face and body. The most obvious and most direct threat is the huge slash mark, stretching down the man's chest. The wound is no shallow paper cut. It is several inches deep, starting a little below the man's shoulder, stretching across his ribcage, ending at the top his stomach. The blade used to inflict this must have been one hell of a weapon considering the man is wearing a thick bullet proof vest, which in itself is strange. Somehow this man sustained a knife wound in what clearly was originally intended to be gunfight.

Wes pulls his jacket off, soaking up the blood pooling around the gash then reaches into his back jean pocket for his phone. Leaving one hand pressed against the man's chest in attempt to clot the blood, he begins to dial 911, but before Wes can bring the phone up to his ear, a powerful hand yanks his arm down, sending his phone clattering against the concrete. Before Wes could get an opportunity to retrieve his phone from the road, a car ran over it, flattening the phone.

"No hospitals," A gravely voice demands.

Normally, Wes would be bothered by the destitution of his phone- he's fresh out of college with limited money, but the man's reason distracts him from any irritation. He stares in bewilderment at the now clearly alert man sprawled out against the cement.

"Are you crazy?" Wes questions, attempting to keep the man pinned to the ground with his hands. "You need medical attention."

The man exhibits his superior strength by easily brushing aside Wes' hands despite the amount of force Wes pressed into the man's chest to prevent him from moving.

"I'm fine," He states with no room for argument.

In order to further prove his point, the man stumbles to his feet, but nearly crashes back to the ground until Wes leaps up and catches the man's chest. For a moment, Wes staggers under the weight of the muscular man. The twenty five year old nurse is much stronger than he appears despite being classified under the average size at a height of 5'10. But this guy ended up being much heavier than Wes originally intended. By the looks of him, Wes guesses it's due to his heavy muscle mass- there is hardly an ounce of fat on this man's body.

"You don't look fine," Wes raises his eyebrows at the man once steadying him.

"I'm not going to a hospital," The man repeats in his deep, threatening voice.

"Fine. But, since I can't call an ambulance now," His brown eyes momentarily cut toward the shattered phone in the street. "And the walk to Metro General is too long, at least let me take you to my apartment and patch you up."

"Trust me, kid, you don't want me in your apartment," The man warns him grimly.

Wes lets out a bitter short laugh. "You ever seen some of the shit bags that get dragged into Metro General?"

This time, it was the man's turn to chuckle darkly.

"You have no idea."

"Listen, you're going to bleed out before you make it halfway through the city," Wes snaps sharply. "Just let me help you, dammit!"

The man's shoulder's drop in defeat. He is exhausted and holds no energy to further argue with the twenty five year old.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"It wasn't a question."

The man sighs heavily, glancing around the street.

"Alright, fine, kid. I'll let you play doctor."

Wes rolls his eyes but nevertheless, leads the man to his apartment. _What am I doing?_ He vaguely thinks to himself. This isn't the first time Wes offers medical attention to someone inside his apartment, but it's usually small things like wrapping up Dianna's, the single mom who lives on the second floor, son's sprained wrist or giving Ben, the old war veteran who lives three doors down from Wes, five stitches on his leg after he caught the sharp end of an old dresser. Bringing someone from off the street into his apartment is unfamiliar waters, but something inside of Wes urges him to help this strange man. Hopefully that urge is to help this man and not run from him. Wes let's out a heavy breath at the thought as he and the man trek to Wes' rundown apartment, the battered man's arm slung across Wes' shoulders in order to support himself.

Neither of the men speak for the journey to the apartment complex. Both of them are heavily concentrated on walking with their new obstacles- Wes with the heavy man leaning part of his weight on him, and the man with his fresh injuries. After a few minutes and some tricky maneuvering up the stairs ("You fell from the roof of a building- are you sure you can make it up four flights of stairs?"), Wes unlocks the door to his apartment, the man following close behind.

"Go to the couch," Wes instructs the man as he turns to collect his medical supplies. "Strip off the vest and your shirt- I'm going to stitch up your chest first."

The man does as he's told. By the time he is done, Wes has laid out his small collection of medical supplies on the coffee table in front of the couch and snapped a pair of gloves on. His "first aid kit" is a bit more extensive than the classic first aid kits due to requirements for various college classes and gifts from family and friends. When living in a place like Hell's Kitchen, a well supplied first aid kit is quite useful.

"Quite the collection you've got here," The man notes as Wes begins to clean the large open wound on his chest.

"Studying to be a nurse in college has it perks," Wes responds, his eyes never leaving the gash.

"You still in college?" The man asks, eyeing Wes in attempt to guess his age.

"Just graduated. I've started working at Metro General a few months ago, hence the first aid kit on steroids," Wes vaguely gestured to the medical supplies laid out across the table.

Once giving the man a small amount of anastasia, just enough to lessen the pain (Wes doesn't mean to be stingy, he just doesn't have very much- it's a miracle he has any at all), he reaches for his needle and the stitches then sets to work. The man occasionally let's out a small noise of pain, but remains motionless while Wes works.

"I'm Wes, what's your name?" Wes asks as he beings to finish up the stitches.

"Frank," The man responds gruffly.

"Frank Castle? As in the Punisher, right?" Wes clarifies as he pulls the thread through Frank's skin.

When the man first fell off the rooftop in front of him, Wes did not recognize him. It was when the two finally reached the apartment building with adequate lighting did Wes get a proper look at the man.

"Yeah," Frank responds honestly, scanning Wes's face for a reaction that never comes.

The news doesn't phase Wes, his concentration never waivers, his hands don't even as much as shake. It was as if Frank just confirmed that the sky is blue.

"You don't seem to care," The military man notes as Wes snips off the end of the stitches.

Wes simply shrugs in response as he pulls the bandages off the coffee table and begins to properly wrap Frank's fresh stitches.

"There are some people in this world who deserve to be killed when locking them up just isn't quiet enough."

Frank snorts quietly.

"Pretty ironic coming from the man in a field dedicated to saving people."

"So I've been told," Wes responds darkly, his attention moving from Frank's chest to the deep slash mark above his eyebrow. Wes shakes his head, cleaning out the cut and continues. "Ever since the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has began his work, I've been getting a lot more beat up criminals that I'm required to fix up. It's kind of nice that these people are handcuffed to the bed so it means they're going to prison once I'm done, but I can't seem to shut this little voice in the back of my head off which keeps nagging to me that this awful person in front of me will be out of prison in a few months and back on the street doing the same damn thing. There are some nights that I want to overdose some of those people on pain meds. Something suttle that could be written off as a common mistake. It's not like anyone would miss them anyways. People can make whatever arguments against you that they want about killing being wrong, but there is no denying that your method is effective."

Wes continues to work on Frank's face then moves down to his arms, surveying his hands for broken knuckles and fingers. Glancing around the fairly empty apartment, Frank's eyes land on a picture of Wes with his arm slung around an identical copy of himself with a buzz cut and military uniform in a small wooden picture frame.

"Your brother?" Frank asks, jerking his head toward the picture frame behind Wes.

Wes turns for a moment, spotting the picture, his face softening slightly.

"Yeah."

"Older or younger?"

"Technique older by two minutes. That's my identical twin brother Smith."

Frank's head cocks slightly for a minute. Something sounds familiar about those two names.

"Smith and . . ." He trails off.

"Wesson," Wes finishes. "My real name is Wesson."

"Smith and Wesson," Frank chuckles. "As in the gun company?"  
"As in the gun company," Wes nods his head in confirmation with a small grin. "My family is from south Georgia. When my mom found out she was having twin boys, it was an opportunity she could not pass up on."

"You don't have a southern accent," Frank notes.

"No, I lost mine when I came to New York. I've always been susceptible to other people's accents. We traveled to Ireland for two weeks when I was in high school and I came back with an Irish accent for a solid three days. If I were to get around my family again, then you'd hear it."

"What branch of the military is Smith in?" Frank asks.

"Special Forces. He wants to be a Green Beret. What branch were you in?"

"Marines. Green Berets… Those are some tough motherfuckers."

"Yeah," Wes laughs, thinking fondly of his twin brother. "He's always had the mindset of 'if it was easy, everyone would do it'."

"That's a good mindset to have when going through Green Beret Training."

"So he's been told. Between that mind set and being too stubborn to quit, Smith will be fine."

"Hopefully that's the only way he uses his stubbornness."

"I hope so too… Those officers will have a field day with him if he doesn't."

"There was this one guy in my battalion, he was from Texas and he dipped, a lot. Our uh commander found his can and made him do push ups, except every time he went down, he had to eat a mouthful of his dip until the can was empty. After that, he couldn't stand the spearmint flavored dip, so he started dipping something else. He probably ate 12 cans of dip before he finally stopped dipping," Frank laughs, recalling the stubborn Texan and his multiple cans of dip.

"Smith used to dip, but he ended up quitting before going into basic training because of stories like that."

"Smart man," Frank glances around the room once more and spots a picture of an older man framed by various metals and military decorations. "That your old man?" He asks, jerking his head toward the frame.

Wes glances toward the picture in question.

"Yeah," he responds quietly, wrapping Frank's knuckles.

The military man frowns at the quiet response.

"Didn't get along?" Frank guesses.

"No, no we were actually really close," Wes reaches down his shirt and pulls up a metal chain with silver dog tags. "He was killed in action a few months back in Afghanistan."

"I'm sorry."

Wes shrugs, looking down at the couch.

"Thanks. His death activated this… Intensity inside of Smith. He's already stubborn as hell, but when dad died, he knew that he was _going to become_ a Green Beret, the best he can be, and nobody can stop him."

"So if that's what made your brother want to join the military, what made you want to become a nurse?"

Wes finishes wrapping Frank's hand, the last of Frank's injuries then quietly sits on the couch for a moment.

"I was visiting my friend Eric who lives in New York a few years back and we were walking back to his place one night when these guys came out of this alley and started beating the shit out of us and stole all of our stuff. After they mugged us, they started to leave and then one of them without warning pulled out a gun and shot Eric in the stomach. The cowards fucking ran and I was left there to watch my best friend bleed out," By this point, in spite of himself, tears began flowing down Wes' checks. "I tried to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing I could do, I didn't know what to do. By the time someone else found us and called an ambulance, Eric was dead and I was left there, covered in his blood," Wes takes a shaky breath, wiping his cheeks. "I never wanted to be in the position of not knowing how to help someone in need, helping people like Eric. He was really smart… He used to live in Georgia, that's how I knew him, but he always one of the top people of our class. He wanted to study to be aerospace engineer. And he was really good at football- hell any sport really," Wes looks down, smiling bitterly. "Geeze, I'm bawling like baby."

"You watched your best friend die," Frank points out. "The fact that you used his death to motivate you to help others instead of being bitter says a lot about your character."

"Good things I hope," Wes jokes in attempt to lighten the mode.

"Better things than can be thought of me," Frank chuckles darkly. "Then again, that's not really saying much."

Wes doesn't respond, staring at the picture of his dad. It's been awhile since he's talked about Eric. Out of all people to finally open up about his dead friend, Wes has no idea why he chooses a stranger who kills criminals. Though he considers asking Frank his story and motivation, between the trial and various newspaper articles, Wes had gathered the events which led to the creation of the "Punisher". It seemed interesting to Wes, the contrast between the two men. Both suffered influential losses in their lives. One became a deadly avenger driven on a path of revenge and desire to prevent this tragedy from happening to anyone else and the other became a source of unbiased help, determined to save lives so no one would ever experience the pain of losing someone they love.

"Do you need somewhere to sleep?" Wes offers.

Punisher or not, Wes will continue to help Frank. Partly because in a weird way, it's the right thing to do, and partly because, though his methods are questionable, he believes in the intention.

"No," Frank begins to stand. "I've already been here too long."

The military man heads toward the door, then turns before reaching for the door handle.

"Thank you, Wes."

Wes smiles at the man.

"No problem. If you need medical attention, you know where my apartment is. If I'm not home yet, the locks suck so you can let yourself in until I get here. If it's really bad, call Metro General and ask to speak to me."

Frank nods, then walks out the door of Wes's apartment. Wes didn't necessarily want Frank to go, not in his current condition, but he knows that Frank is too stubborn to stay. The nurse sighs to himself, praying that Frank would come back to him in time for Wes to help him. Though he refuses to admit it, it may be better for Wes if he never saw Frank again. The young nurse is playing with fire by helping Frank Castle, but Wes holds no intentions of stopping any time soon, even if he is burned by the flame.


	2. Burned by the Flame

**Enjoy!**

Two weeks later, Wes trudges up to his apartment, shivering fiercely from the freezing rain. The walk from Metro General is not long, but in the bone chilling rain, the walk is tortuous and extended by two miles.

The nurse's hands shake uncontrollably as he attempts to find the keyhole. After a solid minute of struggling, Wes manages to unlock the door. He flicks the light on, then nearly crashes back into the hall at the sight of a person hunched over on his couch. Quickly jumping to his feet, Wes yanks his door shut as he realizes the man on his couch is a wanted criminal.

"Frank?" Wes calls quietly into his living room, rounding the couch to survey the injured man.

Frank grunts in response, holding his side. Clearly, Frank has not been in the apartment long as he is shivering almost just as hard as Wes despite his valiant attempts to hide it.

"Did I scare you?" He chuckles with a slight wince.

Wes, ignoring the man's jaring, looks down where blood dripped from between Frank's fingers. Without a word, Wes pulls down the man's hand and pulls up his shirt, investigating the wound. He snaps into nurse mood, receiving the medical supplies, swiftly cutting away Frank's shirt and began stitching the wound with careful fingers. Frank leans back against the couch as Wes works, feeling the ache of his muscles, and his skin tighten from the cold. The apartment looks no different than it did two weeks ago. Same pictures on the wall, probably the same plates in the sink if Frank had to guess, same spread of various books now pushed off the coffee table to the floor. In order to protect Wes from the cross fire of the one man war Frank is waging, he will have to play this very carefully. It's no secret that Frank continues to gain powerful enemies, but the alliance between Frank and Wes must remain as quiet as possible. Frank refuses to let Wes get hurt.

Wes presses the final piece of tape against the thick bandage on Frank's side.

"I tried to layer the gauze on pretty thick to try to protect your side. How's your chest healing?" Wes scans over his handiwork, nodding his head in approval. "Good, you're keeping them clean. They dissolve so you don't have to worry about taking them out."

Frank nods his head, rubbing his face sleepily. He glances over at his shirt, soaked with water and blood and cut in half with a frown. Wes follows the man's gaze then walks back to his bedroom, reappearing a few moments later with a large dark colored shirt.

"Here's something dry. It should fit you," Wes holds the shirt out to Frank.

"Thanks," Frank responds gruffly, pulling the shirt over his head. "That rain's a bitch."

"You're telling me," Wes rolls his eyes, a shiver tearing through his body.

 _Oh yeah, I'm still soaking wet,_ Wes recalls. Whenever he goes into "nurse mood", the rest of the world melts around him. It tends to make him forget things such as being hungry or needing to use the bathroom. Wes excuses himself, quickly changing into a pair of warm sweatpants and a dry t-shirt. He walks back into his living room to find Frank standing in the kitchen brewing himself… Coffee?

"You know it's three o'clock in the morning, right?" Wes questions the man.

Frank shrugs, pressing a button then the grind of the coffee beans begins.

"So?"

"Do you plan on sleeping?"

"Not necessarily," The military man responds darkly.

"Why not?" Wes frowns, leaning against the counter.

"I never can sleep," Frank admits quietly.

"Nightmares?" Wes asks.

Frank nods, staring dully at the window covered by blinds. A flash of lightning illuminates the living room for a moment.

"You're not planning on going back out there, are you?" Wes doesn't even know why he bothers to ask, of course Frank is going back out there.

"Yeah."  
"Why?"

"Because if I don't, who's going to stop those shit bags? Red? He hasn't proved to be very effective these days."

Wes sighs, running a hand through his curly hair. There really is no point in arguing. What authority does Wes have over Frank? None. Frank pours a cup of coffee, then takes a sip, drinking it black. Wes pulls himself onto his counter top, leaning his head back against the cabinets.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Wes admits.

"You won't be seeing much of me," Frank tells him. "I'm trying to keep you out of the cross fire. The more time I spend here, the higher that risk becomes."

"So I guess I shouldn't try to convince you to at least sleep here because it's basically sleeting outside then?" Wes half heartedly jokes.

Frank downs the rest of his coffee, rinses out the mug then places it back in the cabinet he found it in. Wes sighs heavily, watching at the man gathers his weapons and straps his gear back on.

"Thanks for the coffee and the stitches."

Frank goes to open the door then Wes calls out to him.

"Frank?"

He turns at the sound of his name.

"Be careful. Please."

"You too, kid," Frank responds then walks out the apartment door.

Since it's three o'clock in the morning, Frank doesn't necessarily have to worry about stealth around Wes's neighbors, but he grabs his black baseball cap from his bag and pulls it down to cover his face. Wes is a good kid and Frank is going to make damn sure that nothing will happen to him.

* * *

Frank's visits to Wes's apartments remained fairly sporadic. A week and a half later, Wes finds Frank sitting on his couch with a dislocated shoulder and a bullet lodged deep into the limb. Three weeks after the shoulder incident, Wes wraps up Frank's broken knuckles and split open wrist. The worst condition Frank has even came to Wes was with a destroyed face, multiple broken ribs, a few gunshot wounds, and a drill through the foot. With some skillful coaxing, Wes managed to find out that Frank was tortured by one of the Irish mob bosses who is unhappy with Frank's crusade. Despite Wes's protesting, Frank refuses to stay in Wes's apartment once Wes finishes whichever medical procedure. One of these days, Wes knows he's going to flip on the news and see Frank Castle's death plastered all over Hell's Kitchen. He fears for that day.

* * *

The freezing hail tore into Frank's skin, leaving red dots littering Frank's exposed face and hands. Finding a place to stay has not proven to be easy and New York's painful weather was not helping matters. In the back of his mind, Frank knew exactly where he can go, but he refused to address the idea. _You could be gone before Wes wakes up_ the voice urged. _I'm not hurt, it's not worth the risk,_ Frank growled back. As tempting as it is to go to Wes's apartment in order to escape from the hellish (no pun intended) ice, Frank refused to put the twenty five year old's life in any further danger. His breath burned his lungs, his face stung harshly. Personally, Frank prefered the heat over the cold, but his wife enjoyed the northern winters for some odd reason. He sat down for a moment on a bench, wrapping his arms around himself in a poor attempts to retain body heat. Frank rearranged his gear in order to operate as a windbreaker then stood once more to continue his hunt for shelter only to find that hit boots are frozen to the ground.

A long string of curse words and chipping of ice later, Frank freed himself, sighing heavily to himself at his realization. _I'm going to literally freeze to death if I try to sleep out here._ He glanced in the direction of Wes's apartment. _It doesn't appear that any of the mobsters know of Wes's existence…_ Giving into temptation, Frank turned around, and heads for the direction of Wes's apartment.

By the time Frank gets to the apartment, he knew Wes was home. His bedroom door was closed, a soggy jacket hung by the front door. Frank silently entered the apartment, determined to make his presence unknown and gently set his stuff down. Once hunting down some blankets, Frank pulled off his boots and collapsed onto Wes's couch, happily basking in the warm air.

Sleep came surprisingly easy to him and for the first time in months, Frank slept soundly through the night without a single nightmare to haunt him.

Wes rubs his face fluffing up his hair. Despite it being past noon, he is just now waking up. It's part of the odd hour shifts that will hopefully be ending soon. He walks into his kitchen to make a cup of coffee when a thick pile of paper lying on the counter catches his attention. Wes nearly chokes on his own spit when he realizes the stack is a huge wad of money- five grand to be exact.

 _Where did this come from?!_ Wes wonders in amazement, then he notices a familiar, already washed mug, in the kitchen sink. _Frank_.

* * *

He thought he'd been careful. He thought he'd watched close enough. But he thought wrong. And soon, Wes will be paying the price for Frank's mistakes. _No_. Frank sharply cut himself off. Wes will not fall victim to this bastard mob boss. In three months, only three months of Wes knowing Frank, Frank would have to force him out of his current life. Hell's Kitchen is no longer safe for Wesson Harper because of Frank Castle. Frank shoved through the huge numbers of sidewalk dwellers, keeping his head low. After discovering the mob boss's next target, Frank pulled a few strings in order to insure that Wes would be able to make a hast, clean escape. He quickly sprinted up the stairs of Wes's apartment, nearly taking down the door to Wes's apartment and nearly giving the twenty five year old a heart attack.

"Jesus, Frank!" Wes exclaimed, gripping his chest at the man's sudden entrance.

He reached down to pick up the now shattered plate on the ground, put Frank quickly shoved the younger man into his bedroom.

"You have to leave Hell's Kitchen now. Permanently."

"W-what?" Wes stutterd. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I fucked up and painted a target on your back. There's a car waiting behind your apartment. You need to leave Hell's Kitchen."

"Leave?" Wes questioned. "I-I can't! I don't have anywhere to go!"

Frank shoved a huge wad of money into Wes's hand and grabbed a duffle from Wes's closet, tossing the bag at the nurse's chest.

"You have to or they will kill you. I promised myself I wouldn't let anything happen to you after you've helped me so much and I don't plan to go back on that promise. You have to leave."

Wes, hearing the intensity in Frank's voice nodded his head slowly and begins throwing belongings into the back. He refused to think about where he will go from here and attempted to block the crippling fear by focusing on packing. In a few minutes, Wes has packed the essentials along with a few close, personal items.

The two quickly departed from Wes's apartment, Frank leading Wes to the car.

"Here," Frank handed Wes the car keys. " I'm going to draw some attention out front to buy you some time. Drive and don't look back, okay?" Wes nodded, terror etched onto his face. Frank sighed, and offered a sad smile to Wes. "I'm sorry. Take care of yourself kid," Then Frank ducked out of the apartment complex and spotted the car of the mobsters sent to kill Wes.

He ran at the car, firing at the tires and the two men in the car. The men spot him quickly, ducking out of their car, pulling out their own guns, and fired at Frank. Frank quickly ducked behind one of the cement poles holding up the parking garage. He twisted around the barrier, firing at the men once more. One man fell to the ground, a bullet lodged into his brain while the other ducked behind a nearby car. The two fired at each other for a moment, one bullet catching Frank's shoulder, one bullet catching the man's knee. The man cried out, dropping to the ground. Frank took the opportunity to rush the man, a bullet going through his hand, the gun clattering across the parking deck floor. Frank crushed the man's wrist under his boot, the man screamed in agony then he began to laugh bitterly.

"You're too late," The man spat.

Frank squinted his eyes at the man, then connected the puzzle pieces. He quickly fired a bullet into the man's skull then sprinted to the side of the parking garage Wes is on.

Wes fumbled with the car keys for a moment then pulls the driver side door open, quickly throwing his duffle bag into the car. He's about to step in when the cool metal of the barrel of a gun is pressed against his head.

"Step away from the car," A voice from behind Wes demanded.

Wes, his shaking hands in the air, took a step away from the car, his head racing. _I don't want to die_ the twenty five year old vaguely thought to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the man to pull the trigger.

"NO!" Wes heard Frank yell along with the pounding of boots, but he was too late.

 _Smith, Mom, Dad, I love you_ Wes desperately prayed, a lump forming in his throat, then the man pulled the trigger and Wes's body collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud. Frank yanked his gun up, the bullet leaving his gun right as the man shot Wes. The man fell backwards, but Frank only heard Wes's body hit the ground.

 _No_ the military man begged, gently flipping the younger man over, praying by some miracle Wes survived a shot to the head and is alive but he knew Wes was dead. _He didn't deserve this._ The Punisher raised to his feet, fist clenched tightly, arms shaking with rage, jaw clenched. His finger twitched, the motion of pulling a trigger. The man responsible for Wes's death with feel the wrath of the Punisher.

Wes Harper, the twenty five year old nurse from Georgia. Wes Harper, the twin brother of Smith Harper and together they are Smith and Wesson. Wes Harper, one of the only people in this city who had faith in Hell's Kitchen. Wes Harper, the man with an overwhelming desire to help people. Wes Harper, the man who strived to prevent any other person from suffering the pain he suffered. Wes Harper, the nurse who provides free medical attention to his neighbors too poor to afford hospital bills. Wes Harper, an innocent, young man who did not deserve to die.

Frank Castle became the Punisher for people like Wes Harper.

 **Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! In case anyone was curious, at first, this wasn't going to be this long. I was going to end this after the first chapter with this as the last paragraph:**

Frank nods, then walks out the door, never to be seen in person by Wes again.

Wes remembers when he saw the fiery death of Frank Castle plastered on the front page of the news. His hands shook slightly, a knot forming in his throat. The media painted it as a relief to the people of Hell's Kitchen, telling the New Yorkers that they could sleep easy at night again once more, but what they failed to recognize is the spike in crime since criminals most deadly and direct threat was now dead. Perhaps the people who lost all faith in Hell's Kitchen are right. Maybe this city is unsaveable. Maybe this city isn't worth it.

 **Clearly, I decided against it. Instead of "killing" Frank, I decided to kill Wes instead. Almost made myself cry while writing Wes dying. Hope you enjoyed it!**


End file.
